


nothing vast

by kingsoftheimpossible



Category: Hockey RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-01 22:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13304637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: "Be fast and be good. Leave the rest, Adde.”So Adrian leaves the rest.Just like Mario says.





	nothing vast

**Author's Note:**

> my plan was for this to be a full coherent story. planning and follow-thru are my weakest character traits.

 

 

> _Ismene:_        sweet sister, you aim too high
> 
> _Antigone:_    true sister, yet how sweet to lie upon my brother's body thigh to thigh

from _Antigonick_ , trans. by Anne Carson

* * *

Mario doesn’t fight.

Mario is fast, Mario is cocky, Mario is _reckless_ , but Mario doesn’t fight.

“They don’t draft Swedes to drop gloves,” is the gist of what he tells Adrian once it’s clear that hockey is going to be _serious_ for him. Maybe even NHL serious, like Mario could’ve been, if he’d _wanted_ to. “Be fast and be good. Leave the rest, Adde.”

So Adrian leaves the rest.

Just like Mario says.

* * *

Adrian doesn’t really make plans. But he sort of- he’d thought, is all, that he might spend some time in the CHL, or the K, even-

But the Kings want him close, and the Reign is closer than Stockholm or Podolsk, so-

“Don’t be stupid,” Mario says, cell reception scrambling his voice tinny and what-would-be-strange if Adrian hadn’t grown up hearing him over every sort of disjointed distance. “It’s the NHL. Of course you’ll stay if they want you to stay.”

Adrian thinks about that for a few moments, picking absently at the scratchy hotel comforter. He thinks about saying, _I wanted to play with you_ , but it sounds whiny and childish, and he tries very hard not to be, with Mario. It takes Adrian a while to answer sometimes. He’s not- he isn’t _stupid,_ he just likes to take his time. It’d been harder to talk when Mario was a teenager, or in his early 20’s- he was busy, a lot, and he didn’t always have time to wait for Adrian to-

It’s easier now. He waits quietly on the other end of the line, soft scratching noises like he’s sketching, or maybe cooking?

Adrian’s already forgotten what he was trying to say.

“What are you doing?” he asks instead, settling down against the pillows and letting the phone fall beside his head on the mattress. It’s dark- in the room and outside the window, nearing two in the morning and his road roomie is still somehow gone but that’s-

It’s nice like this, sometimes, lying on his back and staring up at the pitch-black ceiling, Mario’s soft huffed laugh and familiar voice etching a play-by-play of his day- morning skate, making lunch, what the dog chewed up, what Vitya said or maybe said to him because his Russian is still on a need-to-know basis. If Adrian doesn’t think too hard, it’s almost like he’s here, maybe on the other bed, lying with his hands behind his head, just like Adrian, looking up into the same North American dark.

He isn’t, of course. He’s in Podolsk, and it’s noon and sunny, and he’s chopping carrots ( _poorly_ , he jokes).

But Adrian likes to pretend, sometimes.

He’s mostly asleep when Mario murmurs, “Natti, Adde,” and the line cuts out.

* * *

 

The playoff push drags Adrian up to the Kings. It's fruitless, if not hopeless, and they don’t quite make it, but-

The coaches like him. They watch him and they whisper, and a few of the vets start treating Adrian like he might matter, might show up again next season. It's nice, it's good, he isn't thinking about it. The buzzer sounds like it was always going to do, and he's already jumping ahead to Worlds- Worlds and home. 

At Worlds, he gets to room with Mario, and they actually do stare up at the ceiling together, talking into the early hours of the morning- especially once the Hurricanes’ Swedes show up and bump them off the Tre Kronor roster.

“I’m not nervous,” Adrian insists, rolling onto his side so he can blink at the vague outline of Mario on the far bed. “But the coaches, they said-” He swallows, trying to remember exactly how they’d phrased it. “They’re not rebuilding, really, but they’re- changing. And they want me to- they think I should- some of the articles said- but they said I shouldn’t-”

The sheets rustle when Mario sits up, reaching between the beds to flick on the lamp. Adrian squeezes his eyes shut, scrunching his face against the unexpected brightness and the begrudgingly fond exhaustion in Mario's expression.

“Adde,” Mario coaxes, his voice cajoling and steady all at once. “ _Breathe_.”

Adrian sucks in a breath, forcing his chest to swell exaggeratedly so Mario will see, but his lungs do burn, like maybe he wasn’t breathing quite right, and hadn’t noticed-

“Again,” Mario says, and Adrian breathes out in a rush before swallowing another lungful of air. He’s a little dizzy, he realizes, but it’s getting better. He breathes when Mario tells him to, and after a few minutes he doesn’t need Mario to tell him anymore. It's embarrassing, or would be, but Mario is just looking down at his phone. 

"Look at these," he says, as if nothing's happened, passing the phone across the rift between the hotel beds for Adrian to take a look; it's some advertisement for new shoes, expensive, loud, exactly the sort of thing Mario loves. 

Adrian likes the Insta post for him, two quick taps of his finger on the warm screen. "Sick." And then, after he breathes a bit more, gets his heart to rest, “Can we turn the light out again?”

The lamp flicks off obligingly, and Adrian's always loved this more than almost anything. He'd been asked once, after he was drafted, about his favorite place in the entire world. Other guys had said things like  _My hometown_ or  _The Cheesecake Factory_ , but Adrian had gotten stuck, just thinking-

_In the dark, in any dark, with Mario._

He's gotten better about not saying those things out loud, because no one really understands what he means, and people get uncomfortable. Upset, even. Mario's the only one who never looks at him like he's said something wrong when Adrian slips up, but even Mario goes a little quiet. 

In the end, Adrian said his favorite place in the whole world was with his Xbox, and everyone had laughed and rolled their eyes, indulgent. 

* * *

 

Mario signs with the Coyotes.

He’s going to be in the NHL, going to be in America, going to be _close-_

He’s watching Adrian’s face the way he does on Christmases and birthdays, like when he started making pro money and he’d hand over some big, expensive gift wrapped in neat, shiny paper-

Adrian doesn’t know what to _say;_ just makes a noise that’s pure wordless delight and smiles like an absolute idiot. He thinks about throwing himself at Mario, wrapping around him, just- that feeling he gets, sometimes, when he’s too much himself and he isn’t sure whether he wants to _be_ Mario or maybe-

Maybe.

But they’re at Worlds; half the Tre Kronor roster is milling about, and Oliver Ekman-Larsson is watching from a few feet away and smiling in a way that says he has more than a little to do with all this.

Adrian smiles back, feeling flushed and bubbly and just a bit like the first time he got properly boarded: knocked out and absolutely, breathtakingly present, all at once.

* * *

 

When camp rolls around, there’s a noticeable difference in the way the coaching staff look at him. He’s not fighting to stay up anymore- he’s fighting for a spot, _his_ spot. They say, _let’s try you as a center, Kempe_ , and they must like what they see or they must not have any other options because it sticks, hard.

Through it all, he’s keeping one eye on Arizona, with the help of, of all people, Biz.

“He’s fuckin’ fast,” is all Biz really has to say about Mario the first time Adrian checks in. About the third time, he seems to get that they’re developing a holding pattern, and he starts putting a little more effort in for Adrian’s sake.

“The coaching staff are impressed. Tocchet’s a tough one to read, but Mario hasn’t been cut, so nothing to worry about yet.” Biz is somewhere noisy, a restaurant maybe, and Adrian wonders who he’s eating with. And then he wonders who _he’ll_ be eating with this season, with no Biz and with Brodzy on constantly shifting ground.

“I’m not worried,” Adrian responds, maybe a few beats late. But Biz is good, like Mario, and he’s never in too much of a rush when it comes to Adrian.

He _does_ make a thoroughly unimpressed noise, though. “You texted me _twice_ all summer, but now that your big brother’s trying to crack the NHL you’ve called me three times in one week. Subtle, kid.”

And, well. Adrian shifts guiltily, mumbling, “Sorry,” only to have Biz laugh right, metaphorically, in his face.

“It’s fine. Nothing weird about looking out for your family. I just don’t get why _I’m_ your news source instead of, say, calling your brother.”

Adrian doesn’t tell Biz that he talks to Mario on the phone pretty much every single day. He can’t think of a way to say it that doesn’t sound _too much._ So he laughs and lets Biz change the subject, talk about the scorpions he keeps finding “everyfuckingwhere, kid, I swear to god.”

* * *

Brodzy gets sent down, with the explicit instruction to keep his head up, because he’ll sure as hell be back soon. Mac makes it to, and then through, training camp. Adrian couldn’t be happier, even if Mac is a little more-

Adrian doesn’t really get Kurtis MacDermid, the way he gets Brodzy or Biz or Mario. Someone on the coaching staff in Ontario said, “Watch out for Kempe,” so Mac did that, and Adrian appreciated it. And now they’re actually in the NHL, and Adrian hasn’t heard anyone tell Mac, specifically, _watch out for Kempe_ , but he keeps doing it anyway. Adrian appreciates that, too.

But he’s quiet, and Adrian’s usually the quiet one.

So when they aren’t playing hockey, Mac gets to be the quiet one, and Adrian gets to be the awkward one, which isn’t his favorite. It’s nice when other people talk enough that they don’t notice how Adrian- can’t, sometimes. But he’s pretty sure Mac has noticed. Sometimes one of Adrian's jokes lands flat and Mac just  _looks_ at him, like,  _hey, kid, give it a rest._ But that just makes Adrian's skin buzz, nervous and excited, and he can't stop poking at Mac until he laughs for real or gets irritated and stomps off. 

So he doesn't really know what to do with Mac, but that doesn't stop him from trying just about everything.

* * *

 

Out in Arizona, Mario gets sent down. Adrian gets a warning text from Biz, saying it’s all roster negotiation and they’ve already got plans to call him back up as soon as- blah, blah, blah. Adrian hears static, nerves jangling so hard his fingers start shaking. It’s stupid, he knows, to be upset. Mario probably isn’t even upset.

But, still-

“Hey,” Brodzy says, waving a hand in front of Adrian’s face. They’re out to dinner, the younger guys, but no one else really seems to’ve noticed that Adrian’s- something. Upset. “Alright?”

 _My brother isn’t in the NHL_ , he could say. _The Coyotes sent Mario down._ But that’s- it’s nothing to be upset about, really. Biz already gave him the rundown. Brodzy's been up and down so many times he has a routine for it. Adrian thinks of Mario in their room at Worlds, quietly murmuring _breathe, Adde_ ; he breathes, fixes his face into something better, and shows Brodzy his phone.

Brodzy furrows his brow while he scans Biz’s texts and then frowns. “Ah, sucks, man. Least it’s just for a few games, right?”

“Yeah,” Adrian agrees, pulling his phone back and texting Mario a bunch of nonsense emojis.

* * *

 

He gets put on a line with Tyler Toffoli, and it makes his stomach twist with the sort of nerves that have him right on the edge of laughing all the time. Tyler Toffoli follows him on Instagram. Tyler Toffoli chirps him. Tyler Toffoli said his hair-

“You’d better hurry and marry him before his fiancée does,” Mario laughs, voice warm over the line.

Adrian pauses midsentence, mouth hanging open ridiculously. He’s distantly glad they aren’t Facetiming or Mario would probably make fun of him. “I’m not- I don’t-“ Mario’s cackling by now, and Adrian smiles in spite of himself. He grumbles, “ _Mario,_ ” but he loves it, a little, how they can talk during the day now, in nearly the same time zone.

Mario calms himself enough to say, diplomatically, that Tyler is an incredible player and that- “Centering Toffoli and Pearson? That’s something to be proud of, Adde.”

Adrian beams or glows or floats, a little. “Just until Carts is back from IR,” he reminds Mario, but he can practically hear the eyeroll he gets in response.

* * *

 

The issue with centering a skill line is that he gets the absolute _shit_ beat out of him. He gets the shit beaten out of Toffoli and Pearson, too, because he can’t stop _talking-_

He’s played hockey his whole life, so pain isn’t a new experience. But the first NHL-grade punch he takes is still one for the books. Someone else will have to write the books, probably, because it feels like his brain gets knocked right out of his head.

He doesn’t actually get a chance for his first NHL fight because one minute someone’s got him by the collar and the next minute that someone’s being pounded into the ice by Mac. Adrian is almost grateful when one of the Sharks comes up to hold onto him; he clutches right back, using whoever it is to keep himself standing more than anything else.

Someone asks if he’s okay- it might even be the Shark, he can’t really tell, but he just nods, watching Mac’s bare fist connect again and again in what seems like slow motion. There's something about his face, not peaceful but purposeful, that makes Adrian feel absolutely calm despite the way his head is pounding. 

Mac gets the box and Adrian gets sent down the tunnel, into the quiet room where he gets a flashlight shone in his eyes and asked, again, if he’s okay.

 _I don’t know_ , he thinks, slow and disjointed, but what he says, with a smile that stings his freshly split lip, is, “Yes.”

* * *

 

Mac always sits at least one full couch cushion away. The Coyotes are losing- keep losing, can’t stop losing. Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere Mario is upset. Not angry, Adrian thinks, but frustrated, hurting. He’s tired, probably, and not looking at his phone. Maybe Sanna is brushing his hair, or maybe they’re eating a late dinner, or kissing on the loveseat he's seen in Sanna’s Instagram photos-

Adrian lurches up, twisting around until he’s got his legs up on the couch and his head resting on Mac’s thigh. The muscles tense beneath him, but he stays put, looking sideways at the tv. It’s harder for people to yell at you, Adrian knows, if they can’t look you in the face- it works in hockey and it works in real life. They tend to lose their steam.

So he doesn’t look at Mac, and Mac slowly relaxes. Eventually, he even rests a hand on Adrian’s collarbone, soft, warm, right over his most recent mouthing-off bruise, like a shield.

During a commercial break, Adrian says, “Thanks,” soft enough that maybe Mac won’t hear it over the car dealership jingle. There’s a beat, a syrupy slow moment like the ones Adrian keeps having since that hit, where all Adrian can feel is Mac’s hand on his chest, the one fingertip that’s resting on bare skin instead of cotton. Mac’s hand feels huge, like Adrian could curl his entire body up underneath it if he tried.

Mac makes a dismissive noise and says, “Don’t run your mouth so much.” He’s smiling, though, face faintly pink when Adrian chances a peek up through his lashes.

“You could teach me to fight,” Adrian offers, starting to sit up, because now he’s got the idea in his head and it feels like he needs to-

Mac’s hand stays right where it is, keeping him pinned to the couch. “Or,” Mac says evenly, “you could just shut up once in a while. The game’s back on, hush.”

* * *

 

Somewhere in all that, Mario goes back down and stays down, and it's hard, somehow, to talk to him. Adrian doesn't want to ask outright if he can come out to Arizona on his holiday break, and Mario doesn't make any particular attempts to invite him. Some days Adrian talks to Sanna more than Mario, and that's- 

Adrian takes penalties. Like, a lot of penalties. Adrian runs his mouth. Adrian's hands itch in his gloves, ants crawling over his skin so it's a fight not to sling them down on the ice after every face-off. He hooks and trips and bitches at just about everyone he can get near, and he wants- 

God, he wants that feeling again, someone rearing back and just  _decking him_ , knocking him out of himself. He wants to float on it, disconnect from his feet and his head and every stupid, silly thing that hurts in him. 

But no one will fucking  _let him_. He can't even shake his wrist without Mac appearing out of nowhere, shoving people away and distracting everyone from the way Adrian's begging for it. He gets surly and weird and quiet and no one knows what to do with him, and the only person who does is on the fucking Roadrunners, further away than he ever was when they were full countries apart.

* * *

 

The break comes- just a few days off for the holidays so people can visit their families.

Adrian wakes up in LA.

Mario, probably, wakes up in Tucson. Adrian wouldn't know. 

(He does know, because he'd texted Sanna to see how things are going and she'd sent a picture of Mario fast asleep, sprawled across their bed, hair bronze and messy and longer than Adrian remembers. He remembers the beach with Mario over the summer, watching Mario pull his hair back into a small bun. Adrian had, unrelated, bought a packet of hair ties at the airport.)

He gets invited to a Christmas party with a bunch of guys from the team and he thinks back to the end of last season, how it'd felt like they were making a place for him. Good, since he's got nowhere else to go, apparently.

It's a lot tamer than he'd pictured NHL parties when he was growing up, just a bunch of dudes drinking in someone's game room, complete with little homemade cookies with chocolates pressed in them that Brodzy brings and gets mercilessly chirped for, even though the whole batch disappears. Guys bring Adrian beers, tousle his hair, ask how much he paid for his Christmas sweater. Talk to him, laugh at his jokes, dibs him for their team in beer pong. 

He ends up red-faced and gently overheated, sitting in a corner nursing yet another beer and watching everyone flit around and be together. There's something miserable and warm in his chest, equal parts touched that these people seem like family and just- just  _sad_ that he doesn't really know what that means, if it means anything. He's feeling maudlin about it when his phone buzzes, and it's-

Mario. 

"Adde," he says, warm- warm! 

Adrian laughs into his hands; he knows he's muffling the receiver but he feels giggly and light and just  _happy,_ suddenly.

"Super Mario," he mumbles, giggling still, tongue thick in his mouth, and there's a beat of silence on the other end before Mario says pleasantly, "You're  _hammered._ "

"Neeeeej." He scrunches his face and scoots around trying to get comfortable in his chair, ends up nearly falling out of it. He notices Mac across the room, watching him with a mixture of vague, irritated concern and amusement, and Adrian lolls his tongue out stupidly.

Mario snorts. "Joooooo. Where are you?"

"Team party. Everyone gave me hairbrushes for Christmas," he remembers, frowning. He isn't sure where he put them all. 

It's such a soft quiet afterwards. Adrian thinks about missing Mario and then having him, has to cover his face with one hand so no one will ask him about his expression. 

"I just wanted to catch up," Mario says after a few moments of letting Adrian bask. "We keep missing each other, I think, or-"

"Yes," Adrian cuts in, nodding even though Mario can't see it. "I missed you."

It takes him a bit to realize that isn't what Mario'd meant, and his stomach lurches, because that's probably one of those things he isn't supposed to say. 

But Mario sounds perfectly happy when he says, "Sure you did." 

* * *

 

Adrian has these dreams sometimes. They're all mixed up- sometimes he's Mario, sitting in the sun with his hair shifting gently in the breeze, arms wrapped around his knees while he just  _is_. Sometimes he's Sanna, running his small fingers through Mario's hair to tuck it behind his ears, falling into bed with Mario above him, around him, in him. 

In a few dreams, he's just himself, and those aren't so different. Just- seeing his own hands on Mario's face, his stomach; looking  _down_ at him and having Mario look right back up.

Adrian always wakes up breathless and aching and so deeply miserable and elated that he almost,  _almost_ wishes the dreams would stop. But they don't, and for a long, long time, it was the only way he got to see Mario at all. So he'll take them, keep them to himself, and keep going. 

* * *

 

The Kings hit a losing streak that gets Mac sent down. It's not like they talk all the time or they're best friends, but Adrian's gotten used to Mac on the ice and off. He's a big, solid centering presence, and the first time Adrian runs his mouth in a game without Mac, it's like- like vertigo, when he realizes no one's going to swoop in and keep him from-

 _Leave the rest. Adde,_ Mario'd said, but Mario isn't here, and neither is Mac. 

Adrian's pulse skyrockets, and everything narrows to his hands, the way his fist looks gripping someone's collar, how he can't see because his hair keeps falling in his face, and when did he- when did his helmet even come off, and where is it, and he's never punched anyone for real in his entire life, and how strange the feeling is- such a specific action, not like boarding or a regular hit, but targeted and so-

His mind slips sideways- that fog again, _brainsyrup_ is what he keeps calling it, shaky footing in his own head and a sort of slow, impossible slide out of himself, and he can almost hear Mario telling him to go talk to a trainer, a doctor, anyone. 

The fight ends, and he didn't- he didn't lose. Sticks bang on the ice, pulsing in time with the inside of his skull, and he skates off, heart hammering in his chest. He gets patted and looked over and tapped and chirped, and they win. 

* * *

There's a text from Mac that just says,  _Nice one._

Adrian's mostly filled up his own head again, present just in time to feel every bit of soreness from the game. He pictures Mac in Ontario, heavy-eyed and sleepy, impressed and amused and maybe a little worried.

_would be better if ud teach me how_

He pictures Mac reading it, laughing or rolling his eyes, shaking his head. He thinks about Mac grabbing him by the front of his shirt, pushing him around, bumping his fist into Adrian's cheek-  _like this, keep your thumb out, stay out of reach_. 

Adrian hadn't liked the hitting half so much as the being hit, but that's another one of those things he probably shouldn't say. 

* * *

 

In the dream, he's himself. Mario has his fist wrapped in Adrian's shirt, right over his heart, grip so tight the collar of the shirt burns where it cuts into the back of Adrian's neck. It's Adrian's dream, and he wants to feel everything- Mario's fist on his jaw, then Mario's mouth. That swooping, dropping feeling of his brain losing track of itself, just for a moment. Mario telling him he did well, Mario laughing at him, Mario wrapping his hands over Adrian's on a hockey stick-  _shoot like this, Adde, shift your weight here, now like this, good job, one more_ - 

He wakes up tired, and he doesn't open his eyes right away. He just- he stays, feeling it all again while it's fresh. The backs of his hands still feel warm, and he knows that when he checks his phone, there'll be a message from Mario, probably about the fight, some joke or maybe concern. He just wants- he wants too much, all the time. His head spins and he lets it, the touch of nausea worth the strange, light feeling. 

Mario's message, when Adrian checks, is simple: a link to a video of the fight, a bunch of laughing emojis.  _good job!_

Adrian smiles, aches, calls Mario with his face still pressed into his pillow. He's getting better at knowing what not to say, but it doesn't keep him from wanting to say it.

"Adde," Mario answers, voice sleep-rough and warm, pleased. 

Adrian breathes. "Hej."

 

 


End file.
